


Heartbreakers

by bullringqueen



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullringqueen/pseuds/bullringqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He *really* needs to start thinking of her as a mother... Michael and Polly, both with broken hearts, continuing to break each others' hearts. Incest ahead, so PLEASE don't read if that offends or disgusts you! My intentions are not nearly so nefarious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbreakers

It was near impossible to think of her as his mother. The only mother he’d really known was already a memory - a soft, fat farm mother who’d have boxed his ears for muttering a curse. A far cry from this steel spined maven the size of a coffin nail and currently sucking on one. This woman… Well, she was some sort of creature.

The creature heard him enter the kitchen and half turned from the sink (which she was currently using as an ashtray). “Alright then, Michael?”

He grunted in reply. Hands in pockets. Nothing was alright. But he was learning to keep secrets. Learning from the best. 

“Good.” She crushed her fag in three sharp stabs. “Whiskey?”

Yet another reason he could hardly think of her as a mother. Hardly conventional, sharing a tumbler, but she offered it. He took it. It wasn’t watered. Stung on the way down. “Thanks.” 

“There are some men coming. Bringing wine. That’ll have to be sorted.” Or sordid, he thought wryly. “And the china’s arrived. All in one piece, thank fuck.” He couldn’t help smirking as he handed her back the tumbler. Watched her throat work as she drank. She wasn’t happy.

It was no secret Tommy’s upcoming wedding had the family off kilter. All a bit wonky, really - Grace’s husband’s suicide and now… A wedding. Hastily planned. And a baby. Already here. Not surprising given their less than reputable family name. 

Such a paradox he saw in his blood relations: gangsters from the garrison gutters to country mansion, still snuffing fags in the sink. Hell, rich folk never even saw their own kitchens, much less took their daily sabbaticals there.

But still. Here was Polly.

And here was himself.

“I can help with the wine, if you need. Or whatever else.” 

She smiled. It was conciliatory. “Thank you.” 

“Yeah.” He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured more into their shared glass. Her hand reached for his arm, hesitated, then landed on his elbow. A gentle squeeze. He raised the tumbler in a half toast.

They were trying, the two of them. Trying to be something neither of them knew how to be, really. A mother and a son. Oh, Polly had been mother enough, he supposed. To nephews and nieces and whichever snot nosed gypsy bairn got dropped on the doorstep. But her own brood… Well, she’d lost them. And he knew there were still scars. He was the prodigal son with the ghost sister he couldn’t recall. He was bound to be treated differently. But he was too old to be coddled. And this wasn’t the woman to do coddling anyhow. He’d known that much from their first meeting.

She’d stood cold in the dawn cobbled street, one boot unlaced, looking hung over and well fucked, dropping keys as well as pretense. Elizabeth Grey. His mother. An utter bloody mess.

Oh, she’d cleaned up quickly enough. Leaving him awkwardly awaiting tea while she stormed about upstairs. He’d heard splashing water and cursing through the thin floors and walls. But it was a damn fine cuppa. And she’d been so goddamned earnest. Heartbreaking, really. 

She was still a heartbreaker. Every time she tried to protect him. Every scolding. Every little salvation. Too little too late, it seemed. To both of them. Too damn bad.

She’d certainly saved him from prison. His lip still curled to think of it. 'Gyspy whore, that mum of yours, boy.' The wardens had laughed as they walked him out. 'Begged for it, she did. Limped out of here like a lame mare!' And that smug copper - Campbell - grinning through a crack in the door as he passed. His ears had burned. As angry as he was embarrassed.

And there she’d stood. Cold in another dawn cobbled street, scarf wrapped round her fragile neck to cover God only knew what. Love bare in her big eyes and in that moment… In that moment he hated her. 

Hated her weakness. Hated her willingness to sacrifice her dignity in such a way. Hated her love and her care and her womb and her wanting. It broke his heart. So he’d broken hers in return. They’d laughed at her. Thought it was funny what she’d done. Maybe it was. Damn ass thing to say. He’d seen it crack her open. Thought it served her right.

It had taken Tommy straightening him out.

Thomas Shelby. Towering pillar of ambition come to fruition. Hero of the war. Hero of the garrison. Hero of the Birmingham streets. Unlikely yet unsurprising role model to a young man escaped from country parish drudgery. He’d called Michael to his office. Poured whiskey. (Reckoning in a libation.)

“Ada says you’ve broken Pol’s heart.”

A gulp. “How’s that?”

“Says you’re embarrassed of her.” No reply and Tommy continued. “You’ve no idea how lucky you are. Young welp. They’d have ruint you in there. In time. My fault. I ought to apologize.” Another gulp and Michael started to speak - to shrug off an unnecessary apology from a demigod. “But I won’t.” Startlement.

Tommy knelt before him. Blue eyes slicing like the razor in his cap. “Polly’s tough. She’s a bloody marvel. She ran this show, you know. When we boys were off under France counting our blessings. She nursed me through youth just like she nursed me through Paschendale. But she missed nursing you. And you were what mattered. She’s no saint. But what she did was hardly a lark. Don’t think she walked in there with the intention of raising skirt and sucking cock. It wasn’t about that. She made a deal with the devil in there, boy. Because the devil had her right where he wanted her. He had you. And that had him a step closer to me. So know right now the only apology I’ve needed to make has been made and that’s to Polly. I can’t give her back her pride. But you certainly don’t have to twist the knife, eh?”

The intensity of the reprimand melted his resolve. Michael felt tears behind his eyes. His jaw ached from clenching. He shook his head.

“Good.” Tommy stood and continued. “Things are about to happen. Quickly and violently. There will be blood. A fucking lot of it. Vengeance. Understand?”

“What can I do?” Practically a whisper.

“Stand back and watch.” A hand on his shoulder. “And for fuck’s sake let her be a mother. At least a bit. I know it’s hard because you barely know her, but…” A sigh. “Just don’t be a twat.”

Michael nodded tightly. “Should - should I apologize?”

“Hell no.” Tommy stepped away, leaned on his desk. “And don’t even let on I’ve talked to you. She couldn’t stand it. Too much like sympathy. And sympathy isn’t what she wants. Just bloody speak to her. Forgive her in your heart and try to fucking appreciate what she did. Because it could have been your arse reamed. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Silence. The terms settled. A shared breath.

“Right, then. Go on. There’s books need keeping.” Michael’s thighs felt numb when he rose. His fingers were sweaty. “And Michael?” He turned. Tommy’s face was half in shadow. “Know this. If you’re shamed of her, you’re shamed of me. Of the Peaky Blinders. Of the Shelby name. Think hard on that before you make any further career choices within this lot.”

The click of her cigarette case brought him back to the present. He blinked. She was searching for a lighter. He produced his own smoothly from his suit pocket. “Here.” A spark and she leaned in. The smoke lingered with the warm scent of her hair. Coiffed now. Polished, she was. At least on the outside. (He imagined the inside a damn sight less neat.) A far cry from the creature she’d been on any cold cobble street.

“Thanks.” She watched him extract his own cigarette. “Is that one of your new suits?”

He nodded, smiling. Remembering fondly the trip to London with Arthur and John. Suits, they’d been told. Suitable for a wedding. But Michael had been taken with the trim new styles. He’d bought several in various colors, much to his cousins’ humour. They’d given him the piss all the way home. 

Polly flicked at a piece of detritus on his waistcoat. “Dapper as hell,” she murmured. Then tisked. Bent to flick at more detritus on his outer thigh. “How do you get such a mess in such a house?” She chuckled. 

“I was in the stables,” he defended. Looked down at her busy swatting hands. And saw straight down her blouse. She wore a light brassiere, lacy, and he could see the shadows of curve and stiffened nipple. He flushed. Bright red toe to head and cock hard in an instant. “Stop.” He stepped away, covered all nervous with a laugh. “I’ll have the maid launder it.”

“Fine!” Polly stepped back, too, hand raised in surrender. She took a deep drag off her cigarette. “And maybe the grey one for the wedding. This black one looks like you’re going to a funeral.”

He lit his own fag. “Maybe I am.”

“Cheeky.” She turned away to retrieve the shared whiskey and his eyes traced the curve of her bum in its straight skirt. 

Fuck. He really needed to start seeing her as a mother…

 

Back and forth, she thought. We just seem to go back and forth. Michael had lit his own cigarette and Polly turned away. She forgot often - forgot he didn’t need or want her coddling. Didn’t want her straightening his tie or dusting his suit pants. Forgot he wasn’t a boy. Forgot he wasn’t really her son. Forgot he resented her as a second class whore. Forgot he broke her heart on a daily basis.

The back of her neck burned. At least they were doing better than the outright icy silence from months back. He’d been genial of late. She appreciated it.

He’d been genial enough before, but she suspected Tommy’s hand in that. Or Ada’s. They’d probably raked him soundly over one of her drunken confessions. “I’m a murderer. I’m a slut. My boy doesn’t love me blah blah blah.” Maudlin as hell, Pol. 

In truth, she’d expected to feel guilt. She’d tried to be a good Christian. (Hard, that.) She’d expected the weight of the copper’s death to crush her. But it hadn’t. In fact, it had felt like a great weight lifted. She equated it to the weight of his barrel body finally lifting off her own. The breath of air she’d gasped when he finally released her throat. Similar feelings. Relief and release. 

But the weight of Michael’s resentment...that was unbearable. 

But time healed all wounds, she hoped. And it did seem that their relationship had improved. Or was she kidding herself? It seemed that every time she got close, he backed away. So she backed away, too. Back and forth.

“Oy. Share. Or I’ll get another glass.” 

“Hm?” She turned. Lost in thought. Michael gestured to the whiskey. “Oh. Sorry.” She handed it over. “Where are John and Arthur?” 

“John and Tommy are off on ‘business’ and Arthur is probably with Linda.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Fucking Linda.”

“Yes, I imagine.”

“Cheeky,” she repeated. But she laughed anyway. Michael was quick. Witty. She enjoyed it. “Well, at least Ada will be here soon. I don’t know where to begin with these bloody place settings.” 

Michael swung his legs over a chair, straddled it. “Just seat everyone beside the people they dislike the most. Keep things entertaining.”

“I’ve no doubt things will be entertaining. I’ve warned Tommy to insist no fighting.”

“Futility.”

“Is Arthur still insisting on doing the speech?”

“Yeah.”

“Bloody Hell…”

Michael flicked his fag into his palm. “Also futility.”

“Here.” She reached for his hand, tipped his ash into her own hand. Her fingers were warm and bony. Working hands. But the nails were clean and laquered. “And here.” She clunked an ashtray onto the table. “Spose we both ought to do better.”

“Thanks, Pol.” Then he caught himself. “Mum.” It came out almost as a question. He blinked and looked up to see her blinking, too. 

“You don’t have to call me mum.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not that I -”

“I know.” She waved off his explanation. “You never really call me anything. Must be hard to get used to.” Truthfully she didn’t know if she wanted him to call her mum. Or mother. Or ma. Any of that. Truthfully she still didn’t know that she felt like those things fit.

But quiet seemed to fit okay. And whiskey seemed to fill the voids. 

Until Michael cleared his throat. Studying his burning fag, he spoke. “I’ve been meaning to say -”

“POL!” It was Ada, bellowing from the hallway. “There’s some bloody kike outside with a wagon load of wine asking for ya.” She appeared in the kitchen doorway, winded and dark curls loosed. “Also it’s about to rain like a bastard.”

Polly and Michael stared at her. Frozen. Interrupted. Polly’s heart bursting with anticipation. But all she said was: “Wonderful.”

 

Family dinner was a paradoxical juxtaposition. Elegant table set by servants, sat by raucous gangsters in varying degrees of inebriation. Tommy at table’s head, Polly to his right, Grace to his left. Michael sat across from his mother tonight, nearest Grace. He was young, but not stupid: could feel the resentment radiating from Grace and the distrust radiating from Polly. He was glad as hell he wasn’t Tommy.

“And then that whore says to me -”

“Arthur, is this dinner appropriate conversation?” Polly interrupted.

“Well -”

It was Linda who interjected on Arthur’s behalf. “It was Arthur’s first attempt at sharing the good word. He’s proud!”

“You can keep your good words to yourself,” John shot.

“Enough, goddammit,” Tommy muttered.

Linda gasped. “The Lord’s name is not -”

“Fucking Christ, shut up, Linda.” Polly put a period on things, pouring a glass of red. Ada and Michael chuckled. She winked at them. “Grace, you selected excellent wines.”

“Thank you, Polly.” The forced platitudes were almost visible. But Tommy seemed pleased. “I must say I prefer the whites, myself.”

“Bloody racist,” John muttered. Again Michael snorted. Ada slapped his shoulder. Even Tommy grinned.

“How are the place settings, Pol?”

“They’re set, Tommy. I don’t know half these people. Hope they can all tolerate each other long enough to eat.”

“Just keep the drink flowing.”

“At the risk of being ridiculed,” Linda began, “I’d like to volunteer to say the prayer before the meal.”

“Lovely idea,” Arthur agreed.

There was a family chorus of groans and “no’s” and various profanities. Michael shook his head. Across the table, he caught his mother’s eye. For a second, she looked incredibly sad. But when she caught him looking, she glanced away.

 

Outside, there was a fire in the pit. Michael gravitated to the voices there. Tommy. Arthur. John. He joined them with a downcast visage, always expecting the piss and never disappointed. “There’s the pup now.” Drunken Arthur pointed. “No teets for suckling here, boy.” Laughter.

Michael smirked. He was starting to give back. “Uninterested in the virgin’s teets, anyway. Aren’t those the one’s you’ve been at?”

Oooh’s and laughter. John clapped him on the back. “Alright, Michael.”

Arthur just muttered, turning away with a dismissive wave. “Just like his bloody mum, the tongue on ‘im.”

Tommy gestured. Michael sauntered over, trying to appear casual but bursting on the inside. “Polly says you were a big help today with the plans and such.”

“I tried.”

“Yeah.” Tommy took a deep breath. “Good job. She loved it.” 

He nodded. Accepted the offered bottle. His head was beginning to hurt a bit. Buzzed. Coffee would be good. “Thanks.” He nodded to his cousins. “Think I’m for bed, gents.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur spat a generous gob. “Need some help hiking into your crib?”

“If I do, I’ll find your wife, Arthur. Hear she’s good at lending a Christian hand…”

“Oy!”

Laughter followed him back up to the house. Outside the door, he stopped to inspect a rose bush. It was flowering, tight buds deep red and promising bounty. He grabbed a stem on a whim. The thorns pricked sharp and gratifying. Lip curled, he snapped it off cleanly.

The house was quiet and dark. He walked the halls and climbed the stairs, soft tread. On the landing he hesitated. Right to his room. Left…

He knocked. The door opened a crack only. Her face was fresh scrubbed, cheeks pink. “Michael!” Surprise in her deepened voice. The door closed and he heard the latch. Closed his eyes. “Come in.”

His groin itched. He crossed the threshold onto her plush rug. She’d draped scarves over lamps, lending a warm pink to the light. Designs on the fabrics cast floral shadows on the papered walls. He squeezed the rose behind his back, needing the thorns to remind him to be good… His heart raced.

“Everything alright?”

No. “Yes. Just…” He swallowed. “Here.” He withdrew the rose. Watched her bow shaped lips part. Delight suited her. 

“Oh, my.” One hand fluttered to her chest. Her shift was unlaced. When she turned to certain light, it accented her curves underneath. So small she was. So deceptively fragile… “It’s gorgeous, love. Thank you.” The other hand took the rose. He saw its bud reflected in her pupil for a second, then saw the reflection of his own hand instead. “Michael!” She laid the flower aside and took hold of his hand. “Christ, did it fight you?” She chuckled and he noticed for the first time - blood. The thorns had done more damage than he’d imagined, four punctures in his palm producing. “Guess so,” he whispered.

“Here.” She tugged and he followed. By her flickering fireplace, a basin. She poured clean water into the bowl and lifted a flannel from the stand. “You ought to be more careful with fauna. Bites, eh?” The water was lukewarm and stung soon as it hit wound. He winced only slightly. Watched her lashes make shadows on her cheek as she wiped. “There.” She tilted his hand this way and that, checking it in the too low light. “Better?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sweet boy,” she murmured. Raised his hand to her lips…

He was undone. If he spread his fingers they would cover her whole face. The damning lips, the loving eyes. He could smash her head into the mantle, curl dark curls in his clutch and throw her to the rug, curve his digits into her screaming mouth and cover her tiny body with his own. Take her. Show her he was a man. Fuck her, biting at the tits that nursed him. Break her in bloody two…

“Polly.” Her eyes flicked up. “Please…”

“Please what?” Her lips moved against his palm, the plosive posing precedent. 

“Don’t scream.”

She blinked. A second. His injured hand cradled her head. Her skull was tiny, too. Easy to turn her just so and he bent. “Mic -” His mouth muffled her address. She stiffened. So did he. Pressed her into the basin stand. Her lips tasted like whiskey and he pushed his tongue to part them. She moaned - fear? It didn’t sound like fear. Hands scrambled behind her. He heard the basin tip. Water splashing about their feet.

Her mouth was hot. He sucked it. Her breath caught in her throat and her hands scrambled at him now, reached for his arm that held her head. He slid the other round her waist. So fucking small. She lifted easily, evened their lips and he straightened. The basin stand surrendered and tipped. Just like she did.

No fight. Perhaps she was in shock. Or perhaps she was just as desperate and broken as he. Two steps to her bed. Two seconds to press her into the feather downfall… His nose was tight against hers and he realized there’d been no breath, no breathing. He drew back. A line of saliva broke between them, fell against her pale chest. 

She was perfect. Pure and terrified. Frozen. Her breaths came at last, small gasps puffing against his chin. Her big eyes were bigger than ever and wet. Tears had streaked her temples. “Michael,” she whimpered. Fingers gripped his shoulders.

He felt a smirk form on his face. Felt a monster swell in his trousers and brain. She wouldn’t fight him. His hand left her head. A few hairs pulled away with his sweaty fingers. He saw them stark against the breast he uncovered, sliding her shift down, down. The little dark nipple was puckered impossibly. It felt like a pebble under his tongue. No teets for me to suckle, indeed… He pulled at it with his lips.

“Ah!” He looked up to see her head turned. Eyes screwed shut and she was biting her own hand. Experimentally he applied his teeth to the nub - gently, gently. Then harder but only just and her head tossed. She groaned around her fist, curls covering her face. He reached up and brushed them away, climbing between her legs. (They parted for him - like the sea’d done for Moses.)

“Polly,” he whispered in her ear. Kissed the ear. She whined reply. He licked. “Polly, I want to fuck you.” She shook beneath him. May have been crying. But the tears from earlier were dry now and he notice no new ones. 

He let his hand wander, one arms still holding her body taut. He pushed the shift up, up, rubbing the hem over hip. “Can I fuck you, Polly? Be my first?”

At that, her eyes opened at last. He’d expected it. Truth was ever a shock to the ears… He’d dallied with the whores, yes, but knew they were dirty. And Michael was not a boy to dirty himself, especially not with disease. 

But his mother was clean. Not pristine, perhaps, but he smelled powder on her now. Fresh from a bath and probably the confessional earlier… His thumb scuffed against strange soft coarseness and her eyes clenched shut again. He took her silence as complacence and explored.

Such mystery. Her cunt was hot as fever. Feathery folds beneath that thin thatch. He pulled away just enough to look down and it was “Pretty,” he mumbled. That pink nubbin peaking up made her arch when he flicked at it and growl when he pinched it. He looked up at her face again, lurid smile. “Hey. Look at me.” 

She shook her head, covered her face with a hand. He saw a bite mark on it. But the other still gripped his shoulder. It hadn’t hit. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t pulled a gun… “Please look at me.”His finger slipped beneath the nubbin. Into a channel where she was quite inarguably wet. “Fuck, Polly…” He pushed the finger in.

“Oh, Christ!” Finally. She glared at him, lip curling to match his own. “Goddammit, Michael.” Her eyes were black in this light. “Stop this now.” 

“This doesn’t feel like you want me to stop,” he said. He pumped the finger, let his thumb slide over that nubbin. Her neck arched, face slackened.

“Oh,” she moaned. “So wrong…” But her knees bent up at his hips, fell open.

And yeah, it was. In a million ways. So very wrong. “It’s good?” He asked. His middle finger slipped in next. “Is it good, Polly?”

“Ugh…” Her hips snapped. “Fuck. Yes.”

He grinned. Inside of her was molten. His arm beneath her was going numb. Secure that she was beyond escaping, he removed it. He cradled her head - easy now - holding her steady locked on his eyes. They kissed. Awkwardly. As if his fingers now pounding her soaked pussy was somehow more acceptable than their lips touching. 

His cock ached. Over sensitive, his trousers scraped it mercilessly. “Shhh.” He pulled away from her. Now was a tenuous time. She could bolt. Like a frightened filly she could throw him and flee skittering. He just might chase her, too… 

But there was no flight. He fought with his suit coat first. No graceful way to remove it and no way to avoid spreading her juices over the fabric. He tossed it. He’d begun on his collar when she rose. “No!” Too sudden, and too rough, he grabbed her shoulder. 

But it was her turn to shush. Her turn to surprise. “Let me.” Her fingers shook no less than his did, but between the two of them they’d removed his shirt easily enough. “Michael,” she mouthed, touching his bared chest. His hairless chest. A boy’s chest. My boy’s chest…

 

She felt her heart break. His hammered beneath her hand and hers simply split. All this time I’ve wanted to mother him and this… this is what he wants from me. And her traitorous body… Well. She’d always been a slave to lust. And it was a hell of a fine thing to be wanted.

With her eyes closed, he was just any boy with just any eager cock. And now, naked enough to suffice, she closed her eyes and let him push her back into the mattress. 

“Polly, Polly, Polly,” he muttered. Nuzzling her neck. Kissing her breasts, sucking, nipping, pawing like a kitten at play. She fully believed that this was his first time, now. Surprised, yes, nearly certain John and the lot would have initiated him by now but...relieved. 

Christ, I’ll have to teach him about rubbers and such. And - “No, Michael!” He was kissing his way down her stomach, busy hands busy adjusting her knees. “Don’t!” She reached for his head. That would simply be too much. His mouth on her like that. Unthinkable! And this was bad enough. She’d get hell for this for certain. Best to get on with it quickly so the regret can move along. “Come on,” she soothed, gesturing for him to move up. “Come on now.”

He stopped, looking up at her. Calculating. Nerves fluttered in her stomach and she realized what a sight she made. Flush and tits and hair and fresh want glistening on her splayed cunt. No wonder… But was he changing his mind? 

He took her hand from his head calmly, kissed her fingers, then grinning, put it back on his head and dove in. 

“Michael! Shite!” Too loud too loud! She gripped his hair and fisted her mouth to keep quiet because hell that felt so fucking good… He was eager and curious and no doubt hungry for the way she was reacting and not that she could help the way she was reacting anyway because he was fucking her with his fingers again and sucking on her clit and his tongue was flicking, rolling and pulling her straight into the devil’s arms and she was bloody well about to come and -

“Michael!” She hissed. “Yesyesyesyesyesssss…” Pleasure wracked her. She twisted a leg around his head and held to his hair for dear life as the little waves abated. “Hell,” she breathed. “That’s -”

His kiss cut her off. His trousers were down and his fingers were at her slightly numb cunt as well as a hard awkward eager cock and there was not time to think or anything because he slid inside her like a bullet in the chamber.

She yelped at the initial intrusion and he froze. Left her bitten lips to look down at her face again. She looked back, fiercely challenging. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Sometimes. At first.” She wrapped her legs round his waist. “Go on, then.” Get it over with, so the regrets can come faster. So we can finish this thing we never started.

He moaned into her shoulder, thrusts shallow and burning. “Feels too good,” he managed. Whiskey breath hot in her ear. 

Polly winced. She’d never had luck on her back. No pleasure in it. Not that this would last long enough to make a difference… “Don’t come inside me.”

“Ungh!” He groaned, rose above her. She saw the whites of his rolling eyes. “I don’t think I -”

“Goddammit, Michael!” She shoved at him. “Now!” Barely. Barely enough time. But only barely. Her stomach was hot with the sticky evidence that he’d obeyed her. “Shit.” Her knee pushed into his ribs as she dislodged herself from his hold, turned away from him. Her elbow shook when she propped on it.

He flopped onto his back behind her, catching his breath. Her rumpled gown made a makeshift rag. He knew she was cleaning herself. “I’m sorry,” he croaked.

“You’ve no bloody idea.”

“Polly -”

“Stupid!” She snapped, standing on wobbly legs. Suddenly tears stung her throat. “I’m your bloody mother!” But her knees were weak as she made her way to the screen in the corner. Her dressing gown hung there and she desperately needed to be free of her son’s spunk. “Get dressed. And get out.” The tears were falling. She couldn’t stop them. But he didn’t have to see them.

She heard him dressing himself. The rustle of his clothes. Her bed creaked. He sat on it to put on his shoes. She sat herself, on the windowsill behind her dressing screen. Her discarded shift settled against a toe and she kicked it away, disgusted. Her face fell into her hands, room grew quiet. What have I done? 

“I...I love you.”

She scoffed. Sniffled loudly as she looked up at him. He stood at the edge of her screen, untucked and staring. “Not this way, Michael. This was…” She shook her head. No words.

Michael squeezed his eyes closed, ran a hand through his now unkempt hair. “I know. I fucking know!” He turned away. “I don’t even understand.”

“Can’t happen again.” She bit her lip. “Right?” He didn’t answer. His back bent, hands went into his pockets. “Right, Michael?”

“Alright!” He shouted, turning to her suddenly. “It won’t. Yeah? It fucking won’t.”

“Good!” She shouted back. Sighed. “What’s happened to us? What have I done wrong?”

“Christ. Nothing.” He sat on her bed again. She could see him just past the screen. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the rug. “I don’t know if I can ever see you as my mother.” The confession was so small. So devastating. Heartbreaking.

She felt nauseous. “You hate me.”

“Didn’t fucking say that.”

“Then what?” She came to stand before him, robe cinched tight and arms crossed as tightly. She made no more effort to hide her crying. Why bother? 

“I don’t know how to love you!” He glared at her. “Don’t even know you. You’re so…” But what was she exactly? He couldn’t quite wrap words around her. And that was the problem, he supposed. “I just don’t know you, Pol. And you’re trying so hard to be my mother. But...it’s too late.”

“I never gave you up.” She looked so old, crying like that. So tired. So broken. 'I broke her.' “They took you and there was nothing I could do. Nothing! There was a time when - when Shelby meant nothing. Now. Perhaps now - if they tried to take you - I could -”

“I said it’s too late.” He repeated. “It’s too late to regret. All that’s over. All we have is what we are now. And that’s…” He gestured helplessly. “I don’t know what that is.”

“I still love you. You know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Her fingers reached out so hesitantly, ruffled his hair. He caught the hand. “I want to love you, too.”

“Not...like this, though. Michael.”

“No.” He held her hand in both of his, looking at it. “I know.” There was a cut on her little finger. Just on the side. He rubbed his thumb over it. Nearly healed. “I can try to…” He sighed. “I don’t know.”

Gently, she extracted her hand. Sat beside him, a few inches of safety. “I can try to let go,” she whispered.

He winced. But wasn’t that what he’d been asking for? “I can try to do better.” He looked at her askance. It was hard to take her frown, her red-rimmed eyes, her sex-mussed hair. He tried a smile. “But I might forget.”

“Yeah.” She took a very shaky breath. “Me too.”

She looked tinier than ever. Part of him wanted to pull her to him, to hold her. But most of him knew that was probably over forever now - before it even began. So he stood. “You want me to go.” She nodded, not looking up. He chewed at his lip. Uncertain. “Er...what about -”

“Let’s never speak of this again, Michael.”

More secrets. The Shelbys were good at secrets. Fine then. “Good night, Polly.” She’d not moved when he closed her door. He leaned against the wood after it shut on him, something happening in his chest. Some kind of heat was unfurling. Tears stung but he blinked them hard. 

Tommy seemed to think Polly was the only one with a heart to break.

Michael knew that was dead wrong.


End file.
